Hotel on a Thursday
by Patchverse-SheCat
Summary: Three months out of the hospital, Black Tom Cassidy finds some time alone. PG for some dark themes.


Hotel on a Thursday

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Author's Note: Based on injuries received in X-Force #4. Takes place between Deadpool Limited Series II #4 and Uncanny X-Men #361, ignoring Generation X #25.

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"But where are you now? When will you share your winter nights?" –Vertical Horizon, Angel Without Wings

"I'm seeing things so clearly now, and you're the reason why I'm in the moment, and I'm alive." –Sister Hazel, In the Moment

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I walk down the red-painted halls and on the patterned carpet. It's an interesting design – brown square, blue square, brown, blue, etcetera, all with a yellow border in between. Probably cheaper than it looks, but it's pretty enough. I insert the key and turn the doorknob to my hotel room.

I'd forgotten what that feels like. To turn a doorknob.

The last two years I'd hardly been able to even move my hands. My disease was mockingly arthritic, like it was taunting me "You know, a man your age shouldn't be involved in these things". Forging signatures, picking locks and making good impressions, that is.

I'm still getting used to being able to walk down the street again, to not being trailed by wandering eyes and morbid curiosities. Small children had the audacity to point, but most everyone else just watched from the corner of their eyes, as if discretion was some mercy they were giving me.

And now, it's back to slipping hardly noticed into crowds and leaving my sunglasses and gloves in my suitcase. I don't have to see a flicker of disgust over some polite service worker's face before they compose themselves. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't an improvement.

So I open the door (the knob is cold against my palm) and walk into my hotel room. It smells of absinthe. Nothing at all like hospitals, thank the lord. I've grow to detest the scent of sterility.

The bed's soft and empty. This is my first time alone – truly alone – in almost a year. Every other time I've had prison guards at my side, or Dr. Killebrew prodding at me, or Cain fussing over me. Or worse, I've had the Reaper at my shoulder, dragging his cold fingers down my spine, and I've been alone only with him.

Sometimes I wanted him to just take me and end it, but death's fickle. Instead, after three different jails and God knows how many hospitals, I emerged from the ordeal relatively unscathed. Meanwhile, the rest of the world believes Black Tom Cassidy is dead, and that a certain Tim Rourke has a passport.

Someone has painted the walls mauve. It's pretty and unbelievably drab.

I close the door and throw my suitcase on the bed. I don't want to open it. I know what's inside anyway – white little bottles filled with pills. Painkillers and sleepers and one for my liver. Brown and red and yellow, respectively. Reminders that I'm not healthy again, and probably won't ever be. They come with me even when I'm trying to be alone.

Well, Lord knows I needed this vacation. Cain wasn't too happy about it, but he worries too much anyway. I frankly needed some time away from him. Ever since I got out of the hospital (the fifth one, I think), he's been fussing away, pestering me about every little thing, double-checking my medication and the like. I try to tell him I don't need mollycoddling, but every time he gives me one of those long-suffering looks I end up snapping at him. Every time.

_No, I'm fine, I swear. There isn't anything wrong. I feel great. I'm fine. Stop worrying about me. I can take care of myself._

And then he nods and he doesn't even have to say "no you can't".

That's why I'm in this unimpressive, rather aromatic room.

I only brought enough pills for three weeks. I believe my exact words were "If I'm not back in three weeks, boyo, I'm either dead, in incredible pain or holding up a pharmacy." And that seemed to make him feel better, if only a bit. As long as I don't have to see the way his mouth crumples when he worries, I can stay stoic and aloof. I don't have to be humiliated.

I run my hand over the corner of the mattress. Smooth and soft and I can feel it with the flesh on my palm. With the tips of my fingers. With the edge of my thumb – I didn't even have skin on my hands for years. It's not even my own skin; they called it a synthetic tissue. But I can feel my hands again, and that's what matters. I'm not dying, and that's important.

Taking off my jacket, I see a scrap of paper slip from the pocket. It floats to the floor before I retrieve it and lie down on the bed.

Cain's phone number. For some reason I smile. I'll call him tomorrow morning. I'll tell him to stop worrying.

It's nice, being able to fall asleep knowing that I'll probably wake up come morning. Before I turn out the lights I push my suitcase off the bed.

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Fin – 2/8/05


End file.
